and fixed. It struck him that she, too, had lived past hope and dread.
She did not sit down when she had closed the door, but stood upright, facing him.
He spoke hoarsely.
"I am going upstairs," he said. "I told you once that some day it would see the light again in spite of us both. You can guess what work I shall do to-night."
"Yes," she answered, "I can guess. I gave up long ago."
She looked at him steadily; her eyes dilated a little as if with slow-growing fear of him.
"I knew it would end so," she went on. "I fought against my belief that it would, but it grew stronger every day—every hour. There was no other way."
"No," he replied, "there was no other way."
"I have seen it in your face," she said. "I have heard it in your voice. It has never been absent from your thoughts a moment—nor mine."
He did not speak.
"At first, when he died"
Her voice faltered and broke, and then rose in a cry almost shrill.
"He did not die!" she cried. "He is not dead. He lives now—here! There is no death for him—not even death until it is done."
She panted for breath; her thin chest rose and fell—and yet suddenly she checked herself and stood before him with her first strained cairn.
"Go," she said. " I cannot hold you. If there is an end to be reached, reach it for God's sake and let him rest."
